


Creative with limited resources

by wtfkovah



Series: Sweater Vest Stories [7]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), Awkward Flirting, Boss/Employee Relationship, Cute, Eventual Romance, Fluff, M/M, Out of Character, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24373306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfkovah/pseuds/wtfkovah
Summary: Paris is for lovers.
Relationships: Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups/Lee Jihoon | Woozi
Series: Sweater Vest Stories [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1736101
Comments: 18
Kudos: 248





	Creative with limited resources

**Author's Note:**

> RE-UPLOAD

“You guys really can’t make this easy on me, can you.” Jihoon chides, crossing his arms.

Everyone stares back at him with potent disapproval.

 _Jesus, tough crowd_ —Jihoon thinks, but nevertheless he sighs and holds his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. 

_“I know, I know—_ it’s not fair. But please don’t be angry with me. If it was up to me, I wouldn’t leave any of you behind, but the fact of the matter is, there’s just too many of you. I had to make an executive decision, and I chose Larry—and not because he’s my “favourite.” You know I don’t play favourites, I love you all the same. But Larry _is_ on the smaller side and won’t take up much room in my luggage, so he’s the practical choice, okay?”

They’re not buying it of course. None of them seem to be buying it, and Jihoon pinches his brow and wonders if anyone else in the world has to struggle through life with similarly impossible choices.

Probably not.

His ‘Sophie’s choice’ dilemma is interrupted by Seokmin, yelling from the kitchen.

“Jihoon—are you _packed_ yet? Get your ass in gear, we need to leave in like 10 minutes!”

Jihoon quickly scrambles up from where he’s kneeling next to the bed, and rushes towards his suitcase to finish packing. Larry’s already tucked safely into the inner netting between a sweater vest and his socks, so he sprints across the corridor to grab his toiletry bag from the bathroom.

When he comes back, Seokmin is standing impatiently next to his suitcase, tapping his foot as he peers into the open suitcase.

He points at Larry, “Are you sure you want to bring him Jihoon? The others will get _jealous_.”

“Don’t you start!” Jihoon huffs, zipping his toiletry bag shut and stuffing it into the outer compartment. “I can’t go alone. And you know I can’t sleep without one.”

“True. But I thought you could cuddle with your _boss_ instead.” Seokmin says with a predictably _lewd_ arch of his eyebrow.

“Very funny. Ha ha.” Jihoon says dryly, shooting him a quelling glare.

Seokmin’s clearly developed an infuriating immunity to his quelling glares, and just grins back, wildly.

“Will you guys be sharing a _room_?”

“Of course not.” Jihoon shakes his head. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he grabs his diary and begins checking through his itinerary list. “We’ll be sharing a suite. That’s two separate rooms and two separate bathroom facilities for your information.”

Seokmin laughs softly behind him, “Still though—pretty _cosy_. I think you should bring your sexy pyjamas to lounge around in. Might get yourself a raise as well as a new boyfriend.”

The pen skids wildly across his page as Jihoon fumbles with his grip. “I don’t _have_ sexy pyjamas.” He says, and is damn right proud of himself for saying that without stammering. “And this is hardly an appropriate time for sexy pyjamas anyway. It’s a _business_ trip.”

Seokmin seems to have also developed selective deafness, because he ignores everything Jihoon’s saying to sigh wistfully. “Oh man, I bet you Seungcheol sleeps in the nude. He’s one of those guys, I can tell—and he’s _definitely_ got the body for it.”

“Oh my god, Seokmin, _please_. I’d like not to think about that right now.” Jihoon blushes, turning back to his inventory list as Seokmin cackles behind him.

He starts ticking off the rest of the items on his list with a satisfied smile, while Seokmin hovers impatiently in the background. As he’s tucking his notebook back into his shoulder bag, he hears a drawer slide open, hears Seokmin rifling through the contents briefly before it snips shut again. 

“What are you doing?” Jihoon asks, craning his neck to look at his flatmate, only to find Seokmin already latching the suitcase closed and setting it onto the floor.

“C’mon, you’re all packed, lets go! You don’t want to be late for your big trip.”

* * *

They hit traffic on the way to the airport—then his cell phone signal drops when he’s frantically making a call, because of course the universe has to conspire against him when he’s running late. But Seungcheol’s private jet is still there, still refuelling when Jihoon bursts into the hanger twenty minutes behind schedule.

There’s a flight attendant waiting for him at the bottom of a small set of steps, and Jihoon trips over himself twice in his rush to greet her and apologise for his tardiness. She just smiles and waves him in, and he trips once more as he ascends and feels like an idiot.

He’d wanted to be smooth and suave about this whole thing. Because he never was, about anything. And any reserves of smooth suaveness he might have go flying right out the window when he finally steps foot inside the plane and—

“Oh, wow. Wow. _Wow—wow—wow.”_ Has he said wow enough? Maybe he should say it one more time, for luck. “Wow.”

Seungcheol, who’s already taken his seat, looks up, and then a smile creases his face. Jihoon’s heart beats faster and he goes a little light-headed over the fact that apparently just the sight of him delights Seungcheol _that much_.

It can’t be true. He must just be happy that they’re taking off on schedule after all.

“Sorry I’m late—” Jihoon begins, then stops to search for somewhere to store his luggage.

He’s never been inside a private jet before—never been inside any sort of plane for that matter—but he’d done some research last night, and he was pretty sure there should have been _some_ overhead compartments for him to store his suitcase.

There aren’t any here—but before he has a chance to worry about it, the flight attendant is moving down the aisle and whisking his case away, leaving him with only his shoulder bag to care for.

He glances up and down the plane, at the abundance of free seats—then just sets his bag down next to Seungcheol’s coat.

“Uhm—sorry I’m late,” He repeats sheepishly, “I was struggling to pack. I’ve never packed for a trip abroad before, so I didn’t know what to _bring_. I read a blog online that said I should keep all essential items in my carry on, in case my luggage gets lost. So I packed light, then I remembered we’re going on your private jet and the likelihood of losing my luggage is nil, so I added more stuff, and then the bag was too heavy and I—”

Seungcheol silences him with a single look up from beneath his brows, “Jihoon. Are you _nervous_?”

“I am _very_ nervous.” Jihoon admits, dropping into the seat next to Seungcheol’s. “Did you know that we’ll be flying 45,000 feet in the air, and at over 800 miles per hour? That’s almost twice as fast as a commercial plane! And look—I’m no scientist, but if my math’s is correct, and it rarely is when I’m this nervous, I think that means that we’re ten times more likely to die in fiery explosion!”

“ _Oohh_ kay.” Seungcheol chuckles wearily. He motions for the flight attendant. “I think we need to get you a very strong drink.”

“Oh no, I can’t!” Jihoon gasps.

Waving the airhostess away urgently, he levels a serious look at Seungcheol.

“I’m not very good at holding my alcohol. Besides, the blog I read advised travelers to avoid alcoholic beverages on long flights, because the altitude and cabin pressure can make you very dehydrated and alcohol only potentiates that affect. We should drink only juice and bottled water. That’s why I brought my—" He freezes, then glances around his seat for his Tsum-Tsum Hydro-flask. “Oh my god, I forgot my flask in Seokmin’s car. I have to go back!”

“Hey, hey—” Seungcheol grabs him by the elbow and reels him back into his seat, before he can make a mad dash out of the plane, “There’s plenty of bottled water on the plane. _And_ Juice. More than you can ever drink, okay, so just— _relax_.” He shushes, reaching over to help Jihoon buckle his seatbelt.

Leaning back in his seat, he rests a hand on Jihoon’s knee, patting in reassurance.

“Take a deep breath. I get it, you’re nervous, it’s your first time—but it’s okay kitten, we’ll just loosen you up and take it _nice_ and _slow_. I’m an expert at this, and I have enough experience for both of us. Wait a minute—what are we talking about again?”

Jihoon looks sideways at him, “About me being nervous about flying?”

“Oh, right—of course.” Seungcheol lifts his hand off Jihoon’s knee abruptly, clasps his hands together, then cracks his knuckles, “Let’s not even talk about flying. Let’s talk about something else. What are you most excited about doing when we get to Paris?”

“Using my travel sized toiletries!” Jihoon chirps.

Seungcheol’s mouth pops open. “Er—What?”

“My travel sized toiletries. I picked up some yesterday, and they’re the cutest things ever. Here—I’ll show you,” Jihoon pulls his shoulder bag up onto his lap and starts rooting around for the travel sized toiletries he packed in there because they wouldn’t fit in his case, “Look at this tiny shampoo, and this tiny body wash. And look at this tiny toothpaste. It’s the tiniest toothpaste I’ve ever seen.” He coos, holding the tiny tube out in the palm of his hand for Seungcheol to see.

A wistful half-smile twists its way onto Seungcheol's lips. “Yeah—that _is_ pretty small. One squeeze and it’ll be finished.”

“Uh huh.” Jihoon nods. “That’s why I bought ten! In fact—most of my suitcase is travel sized toiletries.”

Seungcheol lifts his eyebrows. “In that case, wouldn’t it have just been smarter to bring _full_ sized ones?”

Jihoon looks down at the tiny toothpaste in his palm then back at Seungcheol. “But…. then they wouldn’t be _tiny_.”

“Of course—how foolish of me.” Says Seungcheol, looking a little bit bemused. “Please, show me your collection.”

* * *

To say Jihoon is excited about his first time on a plane is a _bit_ of an understatement.

He listens attentively as the air hostess begins the obligatory pre-flight safety demonstration, raising his hand every few minutes to ask questions, like they’re in _school_. She’s kind enough to indulge him though, and repeats everything twice—so Jihoon can take notes. That’s right— _he takes notes._ That’s a thing he actually does.

As the plane rolls onto the runway, he’s practically vibrating in his seat in anticipation, and as the engines speed up he’s shaking so hard Seungcheol half expects him to burst through the ceiling and take flight himself.

In fact, he’s so hyped up, that for a minute Seungcheol actually considers the merits of slipping a sleeping pill into his drink—just so he can calm the fuck down. But once the plane is in the air, all the tension seems to evaporate out of him, so much so Seungcheol actually thinks he’s passed out for a moment.

This unlikely silence lasts only until the plane has reached its cruising altitude, and then Jihoon erupts into raptures. 

“Ooooh. Oh wow. Oh my gosh, look— _clouds_. And so many of them too. And—oh my god, everything looks so small. Smaller than me. Smaller than my tiny toothpaste.”

Seungcheol huffs out a quiet laugh and reaches for the complimentary travel kit in his armrest. Kicking back in his seat, he pulls the eye-mask out and tears opens the pouch.

Jihoon tears his eyes away from the window long enough to notice what he’s doing.

“You’re going to sleep? But it’s only 9 am.”

Seungcheol shrugs affably, “It’s an eight-hour flight Jihoon—what else is there to do?” He says, snapping the elastic around his head. He moves to pull it over his eyes, then pauses, turns his head, “Unless you’d like me to stay awake? We could play travel scrabble and discuss the novelty of travel sized toiletries again.”

Jihoon’s expression brightens hopefully, “Really?”

Seungcheol pats him on the head—he can’t help himself.

“One of these days I’m going to teach you about sarcasm, and how to detect it. But alas, it is not this day.” He drawls, and tugs the blindfold down before Jihoon can pout at him.

* * *

HOUR: ONE

Plane rides are boring in Seungcheol’s opinion.

Magnificently dull, astronomically tedious, lackluster, monotonous.

Well—they _usually_ are—he amends one hour into the journey, when the sound of excitable whispering draws his attention and has him tugging up his blindfold to investigate.

The seat next to him is empty, but Jihoon’s still in sight, sitting across the aisle and making friends with the flight attendant. And _of course_ , he is.

Seungcheol tugs his blindfold down again and keeps half an ear on the conversation, listens as the flight attendant tells Jihoon all about her job being temporary, and how she’s saving up money to go to drama school and become an _actress_. Jihoon in turn, tells her she should quit her job if she hates it so much and chase her dreams, because she’s easily the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen and he _believes_ in her. She sounds touched by this pronouncement, and the next time Seungcheol yanks up his blindfold—because it’s gotten suspiciously quiet—he finds them hugging each other like long lost friends.

Never mind the fact that they only met for the first time oh, say—an _hour_ ago.

Jesus.

* * *

HOUR:TWO

Seungcheol’s pulled out of a light sleep at the sound of quiet rustling, and peeks out of his blindfold to find Jihoon has returned to his seat and is currently munching on a bag of pretzels?

Peanuts actually—Seungcheol determines on closer inspection, and the joke isn’t lost on him. 

“ _Cannibalism_.” He gasps quietly.

Jihoon frowns at him, then at the bag in his hand, then smiles. Then he shakes the bag of peanuts in Seungcheol’s direction. “Wanna share?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Seungcheol grins, plucking one out and popping it in his mouth. “Peanuts are my favourite snack you know, I could eat them all day long,” He adds unthinkingly, and then has to excuse himself to go to the bathroom because they’re both bright red in the face.

* * *

HOUR: THREE AND FOUR

Three hours in and Seungcheol’s roused by the sound of gentle humming.

Pulling the blindfold off, he finds Jihoon has lowered his tray table and is hunched over it, scribbling something into a notebook. There are an assortment of coloured pens and shiny stickers laid out on the tray, and as he watches, Jihoon peels off a tiny heart sticker and presses it onto the page he’s working on.

“Whatcha doing?”

Jihoon startles upright, then quickly closes his book over. “Nothing. I’m just—making some notes.”

He has his hand resting over the cover, but Seungcheol can see enough through the gaps between his fingers to read the _‘Jihoon’s Super Secret Private Diary—DO NOT READ’_ written on the front.

If that wasn’t enough to stir his curiosity, there’s also a little padlock on the side. One of those cheap, easy-to-break ones that never succeed in stopping anyone from reading anything. Seungcheol estimates it would take him five seconds to break it open if Jihoon just vacated his seat for a few minutes—but _then_ —does he really want to pry into his PA’s private musings?

Yes. Yes, he does.

Smiling as innocently as he can manage, which in hindsight is probably not very innocent at all, he leans closer, “Can I have a look?”

“No,” Jihoon says petulantly, smacking his hand away. “It’s private.”

Sitting back in his seat, Seungcheol bites his lip. “Alright. Fair enough. I can respect that.”

He turns his gaze out of the window for a while, then pretends to be absorbed in his phone for a while longer, long enough for Jihoon to relax again and return to his scribbling. When he’s sure he has his window, he pretends to reach for something in his back pocket and leans over the armrest to take a peek over Jihoon’s shoulder. 

Just when he catches a glimpse of what he _thinks_ might be his name, Jihoon slaps the book closed and scowls at him. “Don’t you know it’s rude to peek at people’s private possessions?”

Seungcheol smirks. He’s not even going to _attempt_ to fake a guilty expression at this point. He knows what he saw.

“Even if they’re _writing_ about you?”

Jihoon goes bright red and mumbles something.

Seungcheol leans in, quirking an eyebrow, “What was that?”

“I said go back to sleep Seungcheol.” Jihoon huffs, and reaches over to yank Seungcheol’s blindfold down.

Needless to say, Seungcheol does not go back to sleep.

He shuts his eyes, for appearance's sake, but he ends up lying there, wondering what Jihoon’s writing about him and why there’s a little red heart next to his name.

* * *

HOURS: FIVE AND SIX

The tenth time Seungcheol tugs up his blindfold, the cabin is completely empty and he can’t help it—he panics. He jumps out of his seat and practically launches himself down the aisle. The air hostess is touching up her make-up in a small mirror, and startles when he bursts into the galley, smearing a line of red lipstick across her cheek. 

Seungcheol looks past her at the open toilet door, worry rising. “Where is he? Where’s Peanut?”

She stares at him like he’s crazy. “He’s in the cockpit.”

“What’s he doing in _there_?” Seungcheol asks, feeling confused now.

She shrugs, returns to her make-up, “He was asking so many questions about the plane that I couldn’t answer, I thought he might enjoy a tour of the flight console. I was right. He’s having a whale of a time. And the pilot said it was okay.”

Seungcheol heaves a relieved sigh and returns to his seat on shaky feet, thinking— _I should have drugged his juice._

He doesn’t know _why_ he panicked, really—appreciates now that it was an overreaction because of course, Jihoon wants a tour of the cockpit. _Of course_. He’s a curious, inquisitive, _adventurous_ little Peanut who likes making friends and learning new things. Why Seungcheol thought he’d grab a parachute and jettison himself out the airlock, he’ll never know.

* * *

HOURS: 7 AND 8

When he next opens his eyes, Jihoon’s back in his seat, drinking freshly squeezed orange juice and wearing a pilot’s cap.

“What the—” Seungcheol gives him a slow once over, lingering on the cap and the flight badge Jihoon’s acquired from _somewhere_. Jihoon seems to be waiting for him to comment on that, so instead Seungcheol just nods politely and says, “Captain.”

Jihoon nods back, “Seungcheol.”

Finally surrendering himself to the fact that he isn’t going to get to sleep any time in the near future, Seungcheol props his seat up and turns to face him.

“Nice hat. Should I be worried that you’re considering a change in profession?”

Jihoon shakes his head and smiles wryly. “I don’t think I’d be cut out to be a pilot—they won’t even issue me a provisional driving licence on account of my fainting episodes, so I doubt I would ever get accepted into flight school. But it was cool seeing the cockpit—the captain was really nice, and said I could wear his hat until we reach our destination.”

Seungcheol reaches over to adjust the too-large cap. “Well—it suits you. If you do ever manage to get into flight school, I’ll hire you as my private Pilot.”

Jihoon’s grin widens. He points at the badge on his sweater vest, “Captain also gave me this shiny pilot’s badge, and made me an honorary flight officer. It doesn’t let me fly a plane, but it gets me free drinks at most airports.”

Seungcheol smiles, thinking—nobody should be allowed to be _this_ adorable—around the same time his hands start shaking.

“Uh, that’s great—” He says, reaching desperately for the pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket because he’s suddenly aware that one of two things are going to happen in the next five seconds; he can either have a smoke, or he can squish Jihoon to death in a big hug.

Those are the only two options before him: smoking or squishing, and one of them is just downright unacceptable.

He fumbles for his lighter, thinking—' _you idiot. You should have known this would happen’, because_ sharing an office with Jihoon is bad enough, but sharing a suite? For two whole nights? Holy shit, they haven’t even _landed_ in Paris and he’s already reached his saturation point.

Jihoon is just too fucking _adorable_ to be around for another 72 hours.

He's no sooner taken his first drag, than the cigarette is being plucked out of his fingers and stubbed out in the armrests’ ashtray.

Seungcheol stares at Jihoon, dumbfounded, as he flips the armrest shut and turns a serious look on him.

“You can’t smoke on a plane Seungcheol.”

Seungcheol blinks with the exaggerated accuracy required by such a confident assertion, “Uh, correction—I can’t smoke on a _commercial_ plane. I can smoke as much as I like on my own private jet.” He says, tapping another cigarette out of the box.

Jihoon confiscates this one too, right out of his mouth, before Seungcheol can even _light_ it.

“Well you _shouldn’t_. Smoking is bad.” He says, with all the grave seriousness of a Public service announcement.

“Yeah, but it _feels_ really good.”

“If feels good to poison your lungs and harden your arteries?” Jihoon counters, wounded.

Seungcheol hums in agreement, wrapping his lips around his third cigarette.

The flame barely licks the paper before Jihoon snatches it away with a huffy “No.” The fourth and fifth cigarette meet the same fate, and then Seungcheol has to grab Jihoon’s arm to stop him from snatching the entire pack from under his nose.

“Would you quit it!”

“Smoking is _bad_ for you.” Jihoon whines.

“Valid point. Noted. Now here’s my rebuttal— _I don’t care.”_

Jihoon pulls a disappointed face. Everything about him is so unbelievably expressive that sometimes Seungcheol worries on his behalf, wondering how Jihoon gets through life with those beseeching eyes and that mouth which seems to display every emotion he feels; tight or upturned or loose or parted in a perfect Cheerio-shaped 'o'.

As Seungcheol prepares to pull out a _sixth_ cigarette, there’s a quiet ‘ding’ from overhead, and Jihoon smiles brightly at him.

“Oh, look—the no smoking sign has come on. You can’t smoke now.” He chirps, making no effort not to look obnoxiously triumphant.

Grumbling under his breath, Seungcheol stuffs the cigarette back into its box and pockets the pack.

“You win this round Peanut.”

* * *

There’s a chauffeur driven limo waiting at Charles de Gaulle to take them to their Hotel, and Seungcheol leaves Jihoon to organise the logistics of their luggage and speak with the driver while he climbs into the backseat and turns on his phone.

He’s only been out of reach for eight hours, but he already has 95 missed calls, 26 video call requests and 13 high priority emails. He replies to the emails first, because most of the calls are from Janna— _figures_ —then returns only the calls he deems urgent. One from Jisoo and the other from his brother. They’re equally infuriating conversations that end in exactly the same way; threats of homicide, an instantaneous migraine and a strong urge to hurl his phone outside the window once he hangs up.

Thankfully Jihoon seems to have missed the whole _‘No, I’m not going to do anything inappropriate, mind your own fucking business Jisoo’_ exchange—and Seungcheol’s face breaks into a grin when he notices why.

Jihoon’s pressed up against the car door, face plastered to the window as he drinks in the blur of colour and sound of the city.

Seungcheol pockets his phone and leans in to whisper against his ear, “Is it everything you expected it to be?”

“It’s even better.” Jihoon breathes, utterly enraptured by the view passing outside, “ I mean, look at the building. It’s like a _palace_.”

Leaning closer, Seungcheol dips his head to look through Jihoon’s window, finds they’ve just pulled up outside the white awning of the _Ritz_. “Peanut, that’s our hotel.”

“W- _what_?” Jihoon chokes.

Poor thing is so dumbstruck, he just stares unseeingly out the car door when the hotel Doorman opens it for him. He stares so long, Seungcheol has to nudge him out and take over the logistics of conversing with the Bellhop and getting them _inside_.

He regains his equilibrium soon enough though, and once they step into the lobby, he tries his best to look serious and professional while juggling his bag and phone and registration materials.

“I’ll get us checked in.” He chirps, gesturing towards the multiple lines leading to the front desk.

Before he can skip away, Seungcheol takes hold of his elbow and tugs his back, “Oh yeah? You speak French?”

“Well, no. Not _fluently_.” Jihoon confesses, a little sheepishly. “But I know a few useful phrases to get by. I can tell him my name, I can ask him what his name is. I can ask him if he knows where the bathroom is, how much a ticket for the train costs, I can order a large ham sandwich, and I can ask him for the cheque.”

Seungcheol’s lips twitch. “I hate to be the one to point this out to you, but I don’t think any of those phrases are going to help us get checked in.”

Jihoon frowns and digs his heels in, proving he’s a stubborn little peanut when he wants to be.

“I can improvise, okay. I’m good at improvising.”

Seungcheol waves a hand in a silent ‘have at it’ gesture, then stands back and watches as Jihoon approaches the check-in desk, smiles at the clerk and then says. “Hello—uh, I mean—Bonjour! Je suis…la…baguette?”

“O-okay,” Seungcheol says, stepping in and doing his best not to laugh outright at the bewildered look on the clerk’s face. “That was very cute Peanut. But I think I should take it from here.”

Jihoon looks disappointed to have his conversation cut short, but steps back from the desk, somewhere between embarrassed and grateful as Seungcheol takes over and hands the clerk his passport and membership card. 

They banter in easy flowing French as Jihoon looks on in awe, and at first, the clerk is too busy with his I-Pad and his air of superiority to pay attention to his details. Then something must flag up on screen because he suddenly comes over so _accommodating_ **.** He politely excuses himself and rushes off to find the manager, who comes sprinting around the corner a minute later with a harried look on his face and a thousand different excuses.

Jihoon had made the reservation under Seungcheol’s instructions, but being the little inexperienced peanut that he is, he made it under his own name. As a result, the suites available to choose from were severely limited— _deliberately_. Because these top hotels are about as shallow and image obsessed as fashion designers, carefully selecting who they cater to—who they house in their finest suites. Now with Seungcheol’s bank card on the deposit, suddenly they have a much grander suite available, would he like an upgrade?

Yes, he would like a fucking upgrade—Seungcheol wants to snarl, but Jihoon’s hovering anxiously at his elbow and he doesn’t want to make his little Peanut sad by yelling at everyone. Besides, he’s got a migraine brewing and he’d rather just get to their suite and get horizontal as soon as possible, so he nods amiably through the manager’s apologetic screed and waves off the offer to have their bags carried. 

As they head towards the elevators, Jihoon finally speaks up, elbowing him gently and hissing, “You—you didn’t tell me you could speak _French_.”

“And miss you calling yourself a bread roll?” Seungcheol smirks. 

Jihoon pouts adorably and rushes forward to hail the lift.

“Where did you learn?” He asks when they gain the privacy of the lift. 

Seungcheol shrugs, “It was compulsory in boarding school. But I’ve always liked languages, and I’ve been here enough times to pick up on what you _don’t_ get taught.”

Jihoon beams with delight. “So, you’re like, fluent in it? That’s amazing.” He tugs on Seungcheol’s coat sleeve, “Could you say something else? I like hearing it.”

Seungcheol looks heavenward for inspiration and has a brief flash of boarding school and its strict professors, the thwack of a ruler on a desk, and the quote comes out of him like it’s been pulled:

_“La vie es tune fleur dont l’amour est le miel.”_

It’s a quote from Victor Hugo, one he remembers from his ninth grade French class. His end of year report had said ‘ _Could do better’_ , but Jihoon—dear, sweet, youthful Jihoon, saved from the terrors of rote learning—comes over all impressed.

“Seungcheol, that was—that was _beautiful_. What does it _mean_?”

Feeling embarrassed and off balance, Seungcheol lies, “It means—we’ve arrived at our floor.”

Jihoon hadn't even heard the ping of the bell, and almost trips over his own feet trying to capture the handle of his suitcase and roll it out into the corridor.

* * *

Seungcheol prefers the finer things in life.

It's apparent in everything from the Cohiba Behike cigars he ordered for the limo to the Glenfiddich 50-year-old single malt he requested from the concierge. Jihoon appreciates the finer things in life too, but he’s just not used to having them. And if he’s being _completely_ honest, he doesn’t really want them either because this kind of luxury is intimidating. 

Especially the _Imperiale_ Suite they’re staying in, which looks like the inside of a _castle_ ; all bone white with massive crystal chandeliers and heavily draped windows that overlook the Colonne Vendome. At 19,000 euros per night, it’s practically half of Jihoon’s annual salary and Seungcheol didn’t even bat an eyelash when Jihoon pointed that out. He’d just stared at him, long and serious and then said _‘Jesus, is that all I pay you? We need to get you a raise!’_

Even the second bedroom—the less grand of the two—is unnecessarily opulent; filled with all the sleek, modern luxuries you’d expect from a five-star hotel, but crowded with furniture and art more at home in a museum.

Jihoon spends a moment admiring the ornate Baroque fireplace nestled in one corner that he suspects is original to the space, then another testing the softness of the massive canopy bed in the centre that looks genuinely _medieval_. It’s super comfy—no surprises there, and situated perfectly, so guests have full view of the sunlight streaming through the rambling ivy of the Grand Jardin every morning.

 _Beautiful_.

“Wow, this room really is something else.” Jihoon says, turning around in a circle to take in the entirety of the place. “I’ve never stayed somewhere so…expensive. I’m afraid to sit down in case I dirty something and can’t afford to have it replaced.”

He says it mostly to himself, but he can hear Seungcheol’s grumbled reply from elsewhere in the suite and he doesn’t sound happy.

A quick search of the rooms finds him sprawled on an elegant Louis XVI-style sofa, looking wretched. He has managed to kick off one shoe and dump his jacket on the floor, but his tie remains half undone and his shirt is rumpled.

“Could you close the curtains?” Seungcheol asks, his voice hoarse. “I haven’t been able to drag myself up to do it”. He has an arm thrown over his eyes and even from the doorway Jihoon can see the heated flush on his cheeks.

Jihoon quickly draws the heavy curtains, throwing the room into semi-darkness, but a pool of light from a table lamp illuminates the tense angles of Seungcheol’s body.

He looks _exhausted_.

Granted, getting very little sleep on the plane probably didn’t help—but the weariness seems even deeper than that. It’s present in the tightness in his jaw, in the stiffness of his shoulders. There are deep frown lines marring his brow, and as Jihoon watches he lifts a hand to rubs at his right temple in circular motions.

Jihoon sits on the edge of the couch and gently pulls Seungcheol’s arm away from his face, frowning in concern.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, laying the back of his hand across Seungcheol’s forehead. “Oh no, you’re burning up. Are you sick?”.

“No, no,” Seungcheol closes his eyes, knots his eyebrows in pain. “Migraine”

“Oh no, you poor thing. You’re probably dehydrated from the plane. I told you to drink more fluids.”

Seungcheol scrunches his face up in displeasure and mumbles something that sounds like, “I did.”

Jihoon considers telling him that whiskey really doesn’t count, but decides against it. Instead he leaves Seungcheol battling with his tie for a moment and goes to fetch a glass of water and some painkillers. He revisits his options when he remembers he only has Ibuprofen on hand, so runs a flannel under cold water to press against Seungcheol’s forehead instead.

Seungcheol sighs in blessed relief when the cool flannel hits his skin, but shakes his head when Jihoon offers him the glass of water.

“Come on Seungcheol, just one glass,” Jihoon coos, pushing the damp, curling hair away from Seungcheol’s temples. He pops the first few buttons of his shirt before adding, “You can pretend its Vodka if you’re so opposed to drinking non-alcoholic fluids.”

Seungcheol huffs something disparaging, but Jihoon knows it’s all for show; his boss is extra prickly when he’s got a migraine brewing, but he’s always appreciative of Jihoon’s efforts to help him after. Jihoon’s sure today will be no different, so after some gentle prodding on his part and quite a bit of huffing on Seungcheol’s, he takes the glass from Jihoon’s hand and downs the water in three gulps.

“See—I bet you’re feeling better already.” Jihoon sing-songs.

Seungcheol scowls over the rim of his glass with the look of a particularly petulant child. It rather suits him.

“I really don’t think that expression will do your migraine any favours.” Jihoon points out reasonably.

Seungcheol’s scowl doesn’t waver, but he doesn’t put up any protest to being helped out of his shirt and tie. In fact, he just lays there and lets Jihoon do all the work, staring his quiet _‘You’re lucky I like you’_ expression, while Jihoon struggles with the tiny little buttons on his cuffs.

“Finally—” Jihoon pants, finally managing to free the shirt out from under Seungcheol. He’s wearing an undershirt on account of the cooler climate, and thank god for that—just the sight of his biceps is enough to make Jihoon warm all over.

Folding the shirt neatly over his arm, Jihoon gestures towards the master bedroom, “Go get comfortable on the bed while I fetch a banana.”

Seungcheol, partway off the couch, freezes. “Uh— _Why_?”

Jihoon doesn’t understand why he looks so shell shocked all of a sudden, and shoots him a curious look as he moves to pick up the phone, “So you can have a nap?”

Seungcheol drops down heavily on the couch again and runs a hand through his hair. “Okay, but what purpose will the _banana_ serve?”

“Oh well, you haven’t eaten anything all day. You need _something_ in your stomach before you take any painkillers.” Jihoon explains cheerfully.

Seungcheol looks inexplicably relieved, like he perhaps thought the banana would have some other _nefarious_ purpose. Jihoon doesn’t spare it much thought, busy as he is trying to decipher the hotel telephone list. He dials the wrong number twice, because he’s so used to pressing ‘9’ first to dial out of Seungcheol’s office, but third time is the charm and he cradles the phone against his chin while the telephone rings and Seungcheol hovers behind him uncertainly.

“I uh—I didn’t pack any pain killers.” Seungcheol mumbles, folding an arm over his chest, scratching at his ribs through his undershirt. His fingers tuck under his belt buckle when his hand settles down again. It's not meant to be coy, probably, but the innocent motion draws the eye.

It draws _Jihoon’s_ eye, anyway, and he quickly diverts Seungcheol’s attention towards his case, sitting near the couch.

“I brought some, I always bring a first aid kit with me wherever I go. Help yourself, it’s in the top of my suitcase.”

Seungcheol nods and fetches Jihoon’s suitcase, hoists it onto the table, before Jihoon remembers, “Oh, and I packed a little extra gift in the for you too.”

Seungcheol’s hand lingers on the latch as he shoots Jihoon an inquisitive look, then he flicks it open, lifts the lid and sucks in a sharp breath. 

“A _thong_?”

Jihoon blinks at him as a cheery French voice rings in his ear _, ‘La reception!’_

“W-what?” He stammers.

Seungcheol drops his eyes to the case, then slowly raises them again.

“ _Very_ nice. Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s my size Jihoon.” Seungcheol smirks, and holds up a lacy red thong into view at the same time Jihoon's mouth does something funny, like it's trying to breathe in the stratosphere but there's only ozone and his lungs haven't quite gotten the message that it's time to shut down and die now.

He chokes instead.

“Oh—my god.”

Seungcheol tips his head quizzically. “I’m guessing by your reaction, the thong is _not_ a gift for me.”

He’s just teasing, and Jihoon knows he’s just teasing, and still he can’t stop himself from saying, “Oh my god, No!” And then he wants to sink into the ground. He knows he’s blushing furiously.

Jihoon slams the phone down on the receiver and stumbles his way over to the open suitcase, certain there has been some kind of mix-up. Because—that _can’t_ be his thong. It looks like his favourite thong, but it _can’t_ be because he didn’t pack a thong. He wouldn’t. Not for a business trip to Paris with his freaking _boss_. Except when he scans his eyes over the rest of the contents—there’s no mistaking it. It’s his stuff. His sweater vests and his travel sized toiletries and his lobster plushie and his fucking _red lacy thong._

“I—I don’t know how that got there.” Jihoon clarifies hastily. “I didn’t pack it. I swear!”

Seungcheol is watching him more closely now, brows dipping heavily.

“So it’s _not_ yours?” He asks the question quietly. There's no hint of judgement, but Jihoon flusters anyway.

“Oh, well, uhm—I—uhm.”

Seungcheol stops fingering the lace trimming abruptly, his expression going sharp and interested.

“So it _is_ yours.”

Jihoon wants to die. He wants to expire of embarrassment as he waits for Seungcheol to stop staring at him and give him back the damn thong already. He ends up flailing a hand uselessly.

“Seokmin must have sneaked it in when I wasn’t looking. I don’t know why—I guess he thought it would be _funny_ or something.”

Seungcheol's brow smoothes as a smirk spreads across his face, “That _does_ seem like something Seokmin would do. Shame though, here I was thinking you had some ace up your sleeve to seal the deal with the French architects. I’m sure they would have signed that contract the second you stepped out wearing—”

“Can I just—” Jihoon interjects, snatching the thong out of Seungcheol’s hand and quickly stuffing it into his coat pocket. He grabs his first aid kit next, and pulls out the Hello Kitty cool pack he’d packed for Seungcheol. “Here— _this_ is the surprise I meant. Not the thong, obviously. I wouldn’t—I…can we can please pretend this never happened?”

Seungcheol smiles in a way that suggests he has no intention of forgetting this at all, then starts poking through the rest of Jihoon’s luggage.

“I’m curious now as to what _other_ things you have in here.”

Jihoon almost snaps the lid on Seungcheol’s fingers in his rush to slam it shut.

“Don’t you have a _migraine_ to contend with?” He says, affecting a grave expression and tone. 

The corners of Seungcheol's mouth slant up in amusement. “You know—it’s the funniest thing, but I actually think my migraine just disappeared. Guess your thong has _healing_ powers. Maybe I should just—” He trails off reaching for the lacy edge of it still peeking out of Jihoon’s pocket.

“No!” Jihoon gasps, smacking his hand away.

Honestly, he’s going to _kill_ Seokmin when he gets back.

* * *

They may be in the Gastronomic capital of the world, but they end up ordering room service for their first dinner in Paris because there is still a lot of work to be done before their meeting. The food is still amazing of course, and Jihoon polishes his plate off with gusto while Seungcheol picks at his.

He’s still nursing the dying embers of his migraine, and is only interested in the contents of the hotel room bar—though it seems he’s finally accepting Jihoon’s advice and avoiding the alcohol for a change, reaching for glass after glass of seltzer water instead.

“These notes are very thorough Jihoon,” Seungcheol says, staring at the laptop screen, rolling the cool glass against his forehead. “Good job.”

Jihoon turns away from the window, grinning, “It was fun task—I enjoyed using Google translate for every other word. No wait— _all the words_.”

Seungcheol chuckles and shoots him a glance, then straightens up a little in surprise, “Oh, you’re being _serious_.”

“Well—yeah. It’s fun trying new things, and deciphering articles in a completely different language really gave me a new appreciation for architecture I didn’t have before.”

“Uh huh,” Seungcheol mutters, leafing through the history again. He frowns at whatever he's reading on his computer, but lifts his gaze long enough to say, “So _that’s_ why you’re staring wistfully out the window for the past three hours.”

Jihoon fights back a shameful flush, gaze shifting back to the spectacular view of the Paris sunset. He didn’t think his distraction had been that obvious, but he can’t help himself from drifting over to the window every few minutes to just look outside and remind himself he was in a whole new city to explore, a new country, new continent. _Paris_.

“It’s just—so beautiful to look at.” He answers, dreamy. “I’ve seen it in so many movies and pictures, but it’s extra special when you see it in real life.”

Seungcheol chuckles, cracks an ice cube between his teeth. “Well maybe we’ll get a chance to see more of it tomorrow if this meeting goes well.”

By the time Jihoon turns his head to look at him, encouraged, though, Seungcheol is already turning away, looking at his computer screen again.

* * *

When Seungcheol looks up from his laptop, the sky through the tiny gap in the curtains is oppressively dark, but between the flickering glow from the artificial fireplace and the light from a nearby lamp, you couldn’t tell it was nearing 1am.

For the span of about thirty seconds, Seungcheol considers sleeping on the couch—or perhaps not sleeping at all.

He’s not nearly as exhausted as he expected to be, and his meeting with the architects isn’t till 12:00 tomorrow, so he can afford to review his proposal one more time and still be well rested. And when that bores him to death, he could sit at the desk in the corner and find some semblance of busywork to occupy himself. He manages one of the most successful engineering companies in the world; there is _never_ a shortage of work to be done.

But the impulse towards routine quickly fades when he hears a quiet noise of complaint from the adjacent room. Folding his laptop shut, he stands and makes his way across the suite to Jihoon’s bedroom quietly.

The door is ajar, and when Seungcheol pokes his head in, Jihoon is fast asleep, curled up under the covers and occupying what Seungcheol generously estimates to be 10% of the king-sized bed.

Honestly, he’s so cute and small tucked under there, Seungcheol wouldn’t be surprised if the hotel cleaning staff came in and didn’t notice him sleeping until they pulled back the covers.

The bedside lamp is still on, illuminating his face and the little lobster plushie he has tucked under his chin. _Unintentional_ , Seungcheol thinks, but when he pads closer and switches it off, there’s another protesting murmur from his slumbering PA, “No—please,” that has Seungcheol quickly fumbling to turn the light back on.

_Jesus—is he afraid of the dark?_

He almost knocks the damn lamp _and_ a glass of water over in the process, but thankfully Jihoon doesn’t wake. Seungcheol remains frozen next to the bed for a moment though, waiting and watching until the slight furrow in Jihoon’s brow softens into a pleased smile.

“Merci.” He murmurs blearily. Then; “Je suis la jambon.”

Turning, Seungcheol vacates the room as quickly and quietly as he can, biting hard on his knuckle to stifle his laughter.

* * *

Mornings in Paris are lazy, unwanted—but Jihoon's been conditioned since his childhood to rise early and can only laze about in bed for so long before he gets bored. So he's showered and dressed by eight, only to discover Seungcheol is still snoring away in the master bedroom, ignoring the bleeping of his alarm clock in favour of suffocating himself in the pillows.

Jihoon silences the alarm, then spends a moment just watching Seungcheol sleep. 

It’s not like Jihoon has never seen him asleep before, but it strikes him how peaceful Seungcheol looks – less like a business Tycoon and more like a human being, when he’s sleeping – particularly when he sleeps naturally, and not under the aid of pharmaceuticals.

“Seungcheol,” he leans over and shakes the strong shoulder hidden underneath the blankets, “Your alarm went off fifteen minutes ago, wake up.”

Seungcheol grunts ‘No’ and turns his face into the pillow, smearing a small line of drool on the pillowcase. Jihoon really wishes that made his sleeping face less attractive.

“Well, uhm—I’m going to go get breakfast, do you want anything?”

Seungcheol grumbles another ‘No’ at him and pulls the blankets over his head.

Jihoon suspects the big baby had probably stayed up late _against_ his recommendations, and now he’s predictably jetlagged. Rather than fight a battle he’s clearly not going to win –Jihoon cedes defeat and slips out of the room in search of sustenance. But not before swiping the pack of cigarettes sitting on the bedside table.

The hotel boasts a legendary two Michelin star restaurant with exceptional breakfast options, and he could just as easily order room service and have it sent up, but instead Jihoon decides to make use of the time he has to go out and explore the narrow streets and alleys around their hotel.

The morning air is sharp and brisk, and there’s a heavy roll and whoosh of traffic on the road where he’s walking. But Jihoon doesn’t care, because there’s plenty to see and it’s all so lovely and new. Despite the hefty price tag their hotel really is in the perfect location; smack in the heart of the 1st arrondissement it’s a short walking distance from a lot of tourist attractions, and everywhere he turns there are cafés and Boulangeries; the smell of rich, dark coffee and fresh, crusty bread lingering in the air.

He comes across the Notre Dame Cathedral completely by accident while searching for a place to eat, but it’s been closed off for repairs of course, so he spends a while scouring through one of the remaining information booths. It’s packed with brochures and maps of all the tourist traps in seventeen different languages—but there’s nothing in Korean. _Typical_. So he buys himself a cute little pop-up map from a nearby Vendor, studies it on a bench under some trees near the Hotel de Ville, until the next time he looks up the small cluster of tourists he spotted on the bridge earlier have blossomed into fully fledged mobs of people, clamouring to take pictures of gargoyles and buttresses.

On his way back to the hotel, he passes by a cute little pastel yellow bakery just opening for business. An elderly woman with a tight, glossy bun and a pristine white apron places freshly made croissants in the window, while a man hauls an armful of still steaming baguettes on display.

Watching the window slowly fill with baked goods, Jihoon's stomach jerks violently and he suddenly remembers why he ventured out this morning.

He grabs one of the small tables outside and orders a coffee and a croissant. Then five _more_ coffees, because Parisians drink their coffee in thimble sized cups apparently, and one is hardly enough for a Starbucks Trenta-sized guy such as himself.

He nurses his _last_ coffee enjoying the view up and down the bustling street, as all around him the city swells with the morning rush and subsides again.

He really wishes he remembered to wear his Beret this morning—but, _oh well_ —there’s always next time.

When he finally makes it back to their hotel suite, with four thimble-sized coffees and croissant for Seungcheol, it’s a little past 10am.

Seungcheol is dressed already, of course, pressed and neat, groomed and shaven, the only sign of his recent shower being the damp curl of hair at the nape of his neck.

“Did you take my fucking cigarettes off the bedside table?” Seungcheol asks without preamble, apparently immune to the charm of Paris in the morning.

Jihoon adjusts his hold on the coffees as he pushes the door shut, “Uh… _no_.”

Seungcheol folds his arms across his chest and looks Jihoon up and down. 

“No?” He repeats, eyebrows shooting up, lips thinning with displeasure, “Then who the hell _was_ it? Who _else_ had access to my room?”

Nervous, Jihoon gives a small shrug, “Maybe it was room service. That happens in hotels sometimes. Room cleaning come in and tidy everything up, pick up the rubbish and stuff. Maybe they thought the pack was empty and threw it out, or maybe they swiped it for themselves, so they can give themselves _lung cancer_.”

“Okay then—I’ll go down to the reception desk and yell at everyone, shall I?” Seungcheol bites back, voice going from heated and angry to dry and challenging in an instant. He makes a move towards the door and Jihoon has to quickly set the coffees down to catch up with him, stop him from leaving and yelling at some poor sod downstairs.

“No, no! It was me, okay. I took them.” He cries out, latching onto Seungcheol’s arm.

Seungcheol exhales a short disbelieving huff of air and turns to meet Jihoon’s gaze, all serious again.

“Alright then—hand them over.”

“I uhm—I may have accidentally (on purpose) left them sitting on a bench on the street.” Jihoon murmurs, averting his eyes. His gaze drifts to the tray of coffees still sitting on the table. When in doubt, coffee is always the answer, so he plucks one up and holds it out. “But I got you coffee. Four thimble sized coffee’s—because caffeine is a much healthier drug to be addicted to than nicotine.”

Seungcheol’s nostrils flare. His jaw is all tight where he is clenching his teeth. “Well I hope you’re happy Jihoon—you just set me up for a really shitty day. The first cigarette in the morning is sacred to a smoker. _Sacred_. Now you’ve fucked up my routine and it’s going to fuck with the rest of my day.” He snaps. Huffing out a humourless laugh, he turns his face away and scratches his fingers through his hair. “If you think you’ve seen me grumpy—well you haven’t seen anything yet.”

Jihoon lowers his head, staring determinedly at his shoes.

“I’d rather you be grumpy with me than watch you kill yourself with cigarettes.” He hears himself whisper, despite a sincere effort to keep quiet.

It’s obviously the wrong thing to say, because Seungcheol wrenches his head to the side, eyes locking on him hard. He looks so angry that he’s actually shaking a little as he takes a step forward.

Jihoon takes a step back instinctively, because he’s suddenly having flashbacks to high-school—to the last time someone stalked towards him with such an expression on their face. It had been the football Captain, a total jerk who had taken a sudden and intense dislike to Jihoon’s presence and had decided to express it with his fists. Jihoon had ended up in the nurses’ office with a bruised cheek and a split lip, and though he’s struggling to imagine Seungcheol ever hurting him in such a way, he’s curling in on himself protectively, squeezing his eyes shut as Seungcheol closes the distance and—

_Ow. Ow….Oh, Wait a second._

_This isn’t painful._

Jihoon cracks one eye open slowly, finds he can’t move where his arms trapped are his sides and his cheek is pressed against Seungcheol’s chest, but it’s okay—because when he turns his head up to look at Seungcheol, he finds no anger in his expression. There’s just a deep furrow of concentration and pensive twist to his lips as he holds Jihoon close and…. _hugs_ him?

Yep. There’s no mistaking it. This is definitely a hug.

Unless…

Unless Seungcheol’s trying to _crush_ him to death?

He should probably check.

“Are we hugging?” He whispers.

“Yes.” Is his only reply.

“Oh.”

Jihoon can hardly believe it— his heart is fluttering at a ridiculous pace, but he manages to wiggle his arms free to curl his fingers over Seungcheol’s shoulders, holds on for dear life as he is repeatedly cuddled and _squeezed_ within an inch of his life.

He feels Seungcheol relax into him, gradually, and Jihoon leans against him in turn, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne.

“I’m sorry Peanut, I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” Seungcheol remarks in a low voice, breath warm against Jihoon’s neck. He pulls back, just a few inches and palms Jihoon’s face, smiling. “You’re sweet to care and you’re right, it’s a gross habit and it’s bad for me. I should know better.”

The admission fills Jihoon with a fresh surge of hope. “Does this mean you’re going to stop smoking? _Forever_?”

Seungcheol opens his mouth to speak, but hesitates. “Forever is a _bit_ of a stretch. Maybe I can just stop smoking around you.”

Jihoon looks imploringly at him. “But—but I could help you quit. I’ll get you nicotine gum, and patches, and they even have these little nicotine inhalators that look and feel like a real cigarette. Also I can bring you healthy snacks to eat, to distract you from the cravings. And when you get really stressed and feel like smoking, you can yell at me as loud and as long as you want until you feel better.”

Seungcheol gives a short, shocked bark of a laugh, brow raising in surprise.

“You’d really let me _yell_ at you, just so I’d stop smoking?” He says, beginning to sound exasperated and fond all at once. 

“Smoking is really bad for your health Seungcheol. I’d do anything to make you stop.” Jihoon says, and he means it.

Seungcheol looks pained, but in the next moment, he’s reaching out to reel Jihoon back in for another hug. Jihoon goes easily against him, feeling small and warm when Seungcheol spreads a hand against the small of his back and holds onto him.

“Maybe we can just do this.” Seungcheol sighs, getting an arm around Jihoon's waist and squeezing with a little less desperation this time. “Maybe I can just _squeeze_ you like a little stress ball the next time I want to light up.”

Jihoon smiles into his shoulder.

“If you like.” He whispers, a laugh catching in his low voice.

It’s a companionable little cuddle, relatively short—but warm and sweet and filled with so much potential. When Jihoon pulls away, he does so reluctantly, and then can’t seem to stop smiling.

Seungcheol swallows. For a moment, he looks like he might want to smile too, but then he knits his eyebrows together sternly.

“We should…we should probably get going. We don’t want to be late.”

* * *

Seungcheol's meeting with the French Architects rolls around quicker than he would have liked.

They meet at _Le Meurice_ for brunch, and sit a table nearest the window overlooking the Tuileries Gardens. The lead architect, a man named Frederique, is around the same age as Seungcheol, but wears his experience more obviously in the frown lines around his eyes and the greying at his temples.

Seungcheol has done enough research about him to know he only has a Bachelors’ degree in _Interior_ Architecture, and is in no-way qualified to lead this re-build—but he must have connections or has kissed the right asses on his crawl up the ladder, because he’s here and showboating and the esteem has gone to his fucking head.

He starts the meeting by pronouncing his qualifications like a fucking title and— _goddamn it_ —Seungcheol already hates him. Hates his limp, disingenuous handshake, his attempt to buy them off with a lot of noncommittal talk and especially the way he takes the liberty to order for them, like he thinks Seungcheol’s going to butcher the pronunciation.

They even have a translator on hand to interpret the more technical chatter, even though Seungcheol had previously insisted it was unnecessary—that he _can_ speak French. But he’s not really in a position to repeat himself, nor to dispense with the pleasantries that follow, though he’d much prefer to just get down to business.

Seungcheol has spent more than a few hours of his life in the company of big mouthed, weak-minded sons of privilege. It comes with the job. That doesn’t mean he's learned to like it. So as the meeting drones on, he finds himself wishing Jeonghan where with him, instead of Jihoon.

No, actually—scratch that—he wishes Jeonghan was here by _himself_ , so Seungcheol could whisk Jihoon away for brunch on a terrace somewhere, because as much as it pains him to admit, Jeonghan is _better_ at this.

His Vice CEO is fantastic bullshitter; more fluid, more charismatic that Seungcheol gives him credit for. Given the right motivation, Jeonghan could sell a map to a salmon, whereas Seungcheol has always been straight-forward no-nonsense; he would much rather just lay out the facts and wait for someone to understand their importance. Explaining the obvious once is exhausting. Explaining twice is irritating. Explaining for the _third_ time why Choi Corp deserves this contract over their competitors gives him a headache.

And maybe it’s the jet-lag, or the fact that he hasn’t had his morning cigarette and Frederique is quintessentially French and has no qualms about lighting up himself, but Seungcheol soon finds his impatience bleeding into his words.

He’s angry and irritable before long, dying for a smoke—but there’s not a damn thing he can do about it because his human stress-ball is sitting a table away, diligently taking notes, and Seungcheol’s not sure he could get away with dragging him onto his lap for a hug.

The meeting ends sooner than Seungcheol expects—which is a relief, but also in his experience, _not_ a good sign.

Seungcheol foots the bill and Frederique shakes his hand and thanks him for making the trip personally, explaining he has to parley with his team before a decision can be made. He tells Seungcheol he will have his answer no later than tomorrow afternoon, but the look he shares with his colleague heavily implies the answer will be _‘No thank you.’_

Seungcheol chews on the inside of his cheek on the way out of the restaurant, keeps his mouth zipped shut on the ride back to their hotel—then fucking loses it the second the door to their hotel room closes. 

“That fucking asshole! That motherfucking piece of—I’ll have an answer for your _tomorrow_? Who the fuck does he think he is? Well if they think I’m going to wait around for them to waste my time, they can think again. Fuck their cathedral, we’re leaving.”

Jihoon’s bag hits the carpet with a quiet _thump._

“I—I don’t understand. I thought the meeting went _well_.”

“Really? You thought that was a _good_ meeting?” Seungcheol says, spinning to face him.

The bewildered expression on Jihoon’s face quite obviously says, _‘Well-yeah’_ and Seungcheol is reminded, not for the first time, that his little Peanut belongs to that rare group of individuals who take everything at face value. Someone smiles at him and he immediately believes everything is peachy—he doesn’t think to look behind that smile to the thinly veiled tension underneath. As far as he’s concerned, everyone was shaking hands and laughing and that was a good sign, and bless him—he’s so fucking naïve it makes him an even tinier peanut than he was five seconds ago.

Seungcheol sits down on the edge of the couch and pinches the bridge of his nose as he begins to explain, “Jihoon—that was _not_ a good meeting, okay. They’re leaving me to stew up here. If they _were_ going to give us the deal, they would have done it by now. The fact that they need to discuss it, that they’re even _entertaining_ other offers says they’re not interested.”

Jihoon clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, in a tut of uncertainty. 

“Would it hurt to be patient and wait more one day? We were planning on leaving tomorrow evening anyway, so what’s the harm in just waiting for their answer. It’s the polite thing to do.”

Seungcheol flops back into the cushions with a loud snort, lacing his hands behind his neck. “You should know me well enough by now to know I don’t give a _shit_ what’s polite, Jihoon. I work on my _own_ terms, and I refuse to waste my time on this project any—”

The rest of his sentence abruptly dries up when he glances sideways and finds Jihoon looking at the floor—mouth set, eyes sorrowful.

It’s the soulful kitten eyes look—Seungcheol’s Achilles heel.

“Oh Jesus—” Seungcheol sighs heavily. “ _Please_ for the love of god Jihoon, don’t give me _that_ look. That’s the last thing I need.”

Taken aback at hearing it stated, Jihoon straightens, raises his eyes, “What look?”

“You know what look.” Seungcheol grunts, gesturing towards Jihoon with a jerk of his chin. “It’s that— _'aw shucks, man, I’m a tiny kitten and my boss is so mean to me. But it's okay, I'll muddle through somehow. Meow.”_

“I’ve never meowed at you.” Jihoon murmurs.

His protest might've had more effect if every word in that sentence hadn't sounded like a tiny _mew_.

Sitting back in his seat, Seungcheol throws his hands in the air. “Fine, whatever. You don’t have to admit to it. I know, okay—I _know_ you were excited about seeing Paris and I’m ruining the experience. I’m an asshole cutting the trip short, you can at least admit to that.”

Jihoon blinks, just a twitch of surprise, before his eyes soften. He casts Seungcheol a fond glance that seems to forgive all of his transgressions.

“You’re not an asshole Seungcheol. And you _haven’t_ ruined anything. In fact, I’ve almost ticked everything off on my to-do list—that’s more than I could have ever hoped for.”

Seungcheol’s eyebrows tick upwards in surprise, “To do list?”

Jihoon starts pulling at a stray thread on the arm of the chair. He staunchly avoids Seungcheol's attempt at eye contact.

“Yeah, uhm—I made a to-do list of everything I wanted to see or do while I was here. Just, you know, silly stuff I could tell people about when I got home. So they believe me when I tell them I’ve _really_ been to Paris.”

Seungcheol frowns uncertainly, then holds his hand out, “Lemme see it.”

Reluctantly, Jihoon shuffles over to where his shoulder bag sits and fetches his notebook. It’s the same Super special secret book he’d been doodling in on the plane, so Seungcheol’s not surprised that he doesn’t immediately relinquish it for his prying eyes. Instead, he carefully rips out a single page and tucks the book away again, before handing it over.

Seungcheol scans the list, feels his heart clench again and again as he reads through each line.

Especially the last one, that's not even scratched off, like Jihoon's still waiting for him to say 'good job' before he can put pen to paper. 

It’s cute, for a to-do list, so cute and hopeful he wants to pin it to his fridge. But it’s also simultaneously heart-wrenching and devastating he wants to shred it into a hundred tiny pieces and throw it in the fire so he never has to look at it again.

“Jihoon this is—” Seungcheol licks his lips, considering how best to delicately phrase his response. Then decides, to hell with it; when it comes to Jihoon, sometimes a direct approach is the best. “This is _awful_ —this is depressing. You’re in Paris Jihoon— _Paris_ , and you have such _low_ expectations. And when the hell did you even do get to do half this stuff? I don’t remember you seeing the Eiffel tower or listening to French music.”

Jihoon scuffs his foot against the carpet.

“I saw the tower through the car window as we came from the airport. And I heard some French music in the lobby downstairs.” He wrings his hands together. “Or at least—I _think_ it was French.”

Seungcheol stares at him incredulously. “That doesn’t count. Those aren’t _real_ experiences.” He huffs, waving the list around.

Jihoon’s back to staring sorrowfully at the carpet.

“I was trying to be realistic.” He shrugs feebly. “We’re not here for sightseeing, we’re here on business.”

“Fuck that!” Seungcheol huffs, slamming the list down on the coffee table. He glances at his watch and then tugs at the lapels of his jacket, straightening them. “Alright, it’s settled. Grab your coat—we’re going to give you the best goddamn Paris experience of your little life.”

Jihoon blinks at him, cautious and surprised. “Really? We-we’re staying?”

“Damn right we are—” Seungcheol counters, raising his chin just slightly. “Your cute little to-do list broke my heart. And didn’t I tell you not to give me those soulful kitten eyes again? Haven’t I suffered enough?”

“These are my regular eyes!” Jihoon protests.

“Exactly,” Seungcheol confirms. “See, you’re even admitting to emotionally blackmailing me with your kitten eyes.”

“That wasn't admitting—”

“Just go grab your coat.” Seungcheol huffs, shooing him away.

Jihoon disappears into his room wearing a cute little pout—then emerges a few minutes later wearing his cute little coat, and the cutest, _littlest_ red beret Seungcheol has ever seen. In all fairness it’s probably an average sized Beret, but Jihoon has the uncanny ability of turning everything he wears into something cuter and littler than everyone else’s.

It really suits him too, and Seungcheol belatedly realises he’s making soft eyes at him and quickly attempts to save face.

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s my lucky beret.” Says Jihoon, with cheerful good humour.

Seungcheol studies the beret critically, “And _why_ is it lucky?”

“When I wear it, good things happen.” Jihoon tells him, straightening his tiny red Beret, tucking a few unruly curls underneath. He glances at his reflection in one of the mirrors and shrugs, “Also, I thought it would be cool to wear a Beret when I’m in Paris. You know—like all the _Parisians_ do. I want to blend in.”

In all honestly, Seungcheol’s never actually _seen_ a French native wearing a beret.

If anything, he’s pretty sure nothing says ‘I AM A TOURIST’ more than wearing a red beret in Paris. But he doesn’t have the heart to burst Jihoon’s bubble, and besides, he does look exceedingly adorable in that beret. Especially when he winds a matching scarf around his neck and asks, “How do I look?”

“Tres chic.” Seungcheol offers magnanimously.

Jihoon’s eyes actually twinkle. “Thank you.” He flushes, “You’re looking pretty tray chick yourself.” He says, and oh shit—it shouldn’t be adorable how he absolutely _butchers_ the pronunciation, but it _is_.

* * *

Seungcheol takes him to the Louvre to admire some art. Which makes that one less thing on his ‘to-do’ list, but— _oh wow_ —they don’t stop there.

He also takes him to the Centre Pompidou and the Musée Picasso and the Grévin, then they visit the Tuileries Gardens and Place de la Concorde and walk along the Champs-Élysées to see the Arc de Triomphe. They skip the Eiffel Tower because Seungcheol insists the view is much better at night, and because the lines are too ridiculously long to bother with right now. Instead they make a stop at Pierre Hermé, where Jihoon eats the Mille-feuille and Plaisir Sucré and the best marzipan on the fucking planet.

There’s a neon-lit gift shop around the corner from the café, filled with all the tackiest and gaudiest misspelt shit in existence. Those are _Seungcheol’s_ words of course—personally Jihoon loves it, and spends a while fawning over the cute little ornaments rotating on the displays while Seungcheol crows over the typos.

Jihoon buys a few gifts, then selects one of the ‘I heart Paris’ scarves to buy for his mother—but when he approaches the till, Seungcheol just laughs, condescending and cool and leads him out of the shop, down a series of narrow allies to a quaint little Boutique that doesn’t even have a sign out the front.

Considering Seungcheol’s clothing expenditure is closer to extravagant than savvy, it’s surprising to find most of the items are well within Jihoon’s budget.

He deliberates between two cashmere scarves for a while, until Seungcheol disappears with the owner to one of the back rooms and emerges with a third, much nicer scarf. The price Jihoon pays does not match the price tag on the front of the box, but he suspects Seungcheol must know the owner, and that she’s agreed to give Jihoon a super special discount on account of him being Seungcheol’s PA. Which is really nice of her—Jihoon thinks. 

From there they head to the Rue Montorgueil, a foodie hot spot where they drink smoky French roast, dine on oysters and foie gras and earthy black truffles smothered in butter, and where Jihoon has to put his foot down when Seungcheol suggests he try the escargot. He’s all for trying new things, but eating _snails_ —that’s where he draws the line.

But there’s still a hundred different cheeses to sample from, as well as wine, _eugh_ , from all the best vineyards in the country and chocolate truffles that are literally heaven sent, and by the time they reach Stohrer, the oldest Pâtisserie in Paris, Jihoon is fairly certain he’ll slip into a diabetic coma if he eats anything else.

Seungcheol persuades him to go inside anyway, and Jihoon takes pictures of the pretty 19th century murals and buys Macrons and Eclairs and the patisseries’ world famous _Baba au rhum_ desert to take home to Seokmin.

They spend the better part of the early evening in Montmartre, stopping first to see the Sacré-Coeur Basillica, before heading to the artistic Place du Tetre because Seungcheol says it’s the best place for people watching and ‘making an ass of yourself’.

Jihoon’s not sure what he means by that, until they reach the square and find it filled with caricaturists and buskers; street performers and photographers—either vying for attention or trying to rope the unwitting tourist to participate in their performance.

While they watch three men expertly balance on a unicycle, Seungcheol tells him about the time he got pickpocketed by a street mime, and then Jihoon gets his portrait drawn by a caricaturist while Seungcheol glares at a mime who looks ‘suspiciously familiar’.

They have dinner there, at a quiet little restaurant in the heart of Montmartre, sitting at a sidewalk table surrounded by the remnants of Paris’ eclectic artistic community. Seungcheol orders the chicken _basquiase_ and the _tartiflette_ , and Jihoon just picks out an array of different appetizers in order to try a bit of everything. The food is delicious, and the ambience is lovely—and by the time they leave the square and head back towards the Eiffel tower, the sun has set and Paris _really_ comes alive.

People fill the streets, lining up outside the bars and cafes. Women race by in short, shimmery dresses, while men in pressed button downs and rolled up sleeves greet their friends with loud shouts, cigarettes and beer bottles passed back and forth easily.

Seungcheol has to keep ushering him along because he keeps stopping every few seconds, so distracted by the fashion on display. He'll happily admit to being a boring dresser, sticking safely to the same old sweater vest in a hundred different colours—but watching the locals mill around, he wishes he was more adventurous, wishes he swaddle himself in cottons and wools and silks and blend in with the Parisians.

The queue for the Eiffel tower is twice as long as it was earlier, but before Jihoon can despair, Seungcheol magics some ‘Priority access’ tickets out of nowhere, and they skip the line right into the next elevator.

The tower lights up while they're on the second platform, almost at the top. Jihoon’s too busy staring down at the city—too busy being dazzled by the blinking lights that highlight the structure of the tower that at first, he doesn’t notice Seungcheol has stepped away.

When he does, he turns to find him speaking with one of the attendants guarding the last elevator. It’s not a heated conversation, but it seems to be tense all the same, so Jihoon sidles up casually, Seungcheol too involved in his argument with the attendant to notice him, and eavesdrops long enough to gather that Seungcheol is trying to gain admittance to the topmost level.

The attendant is insisting he cannot allow such a thing and keeps gesturing at a sign where _‘closed for renovations’_ is written in multiple languages.

Seungcheol, as expected, won’t take no for an answer, and leans in to speak more quietly.

“Écoute, je sais comment ça marche. Combien cela me coûtera-t-il?"

The attendant seems insulted by whatever Seungcheol’s just told him, but then Seungcheol raises his hands placatingly, smiles and says, “S'il te plaît, je veux vraiment qu'il voie la vue d'en haut.”

The French man sniffs indignantly, then spares a furtive glance at the elevator behind him, before gesturing in the vicinity of Seungcheol’s cuff.

"Vous avez une très belle montre."

Seungcheol follows his gaze, then pushes up his coat sleeve and….starts unclasping his watch?

"D'accord.” He says, handing the watch over. “Mais juste moi et lui. Tant qu'il veut. "

The man pockets the watch, looking openly amused. He even _winks_ and claps Seungcheol on the back, saying, "Ahh, très romantique."

Jihoon doesn’t understand a word of what they’re talking about, but whatever the man’s said has Seungcheol’s face burning bright red with… _anger_? Embarrassment? It’s hard to say, but Seungcheol doesn’t react in any other way but to nod and wave Jihoon over. 

“C’mon—we’re going to the top.” He says, gesturing towards the cordoned off elevator.

It hits Jihoon then, how grand a gesture Seungcheol has made, and he rushes forward urgently, grabbing for his arm, “Wait—wait a second. Did you just give that man your watch so he’d let us go up?”

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.” Seungcheol dismisses modestly, like he hadn’t just handed over a $20,000 dollar watch for a more scenic view.

“How can you say that?” Jihoon croaks.

He’s been trying not to feel guilty as Seungcheol picks up the check at meal after meal, cab ride after cab ride. Seungcheol had insisted, yes, but he doesn’t want money to start feeling almost like a triviality, just colourful bits of paper that help them get around more efficiently.

There comes a point in time where you just have to put your foot down and say enough; this is probably it.

“Please, just…just ask for it back. We don’t have to go up any higher—the view is perfect from right here.” He pleads urgently.

“It’s just a watch Jihoon—” Seungcheol points out, with a brief shrug. “I have plenty of watches. It’s not even my _favourite_ watch, okay, so c’mon.”

He turns towards the lift, then stops, and reaches back, holding out a hand for Jihoon to take. When Jihoon hesitates, he leans in close, close enough for Jihoon to smell the fading traces of his cologne and almost feel the scratch of stubble against his cheek. Tourists snap pictures all around them, but the noise of shuffling feet and camera shutters fade into background noise when Seungcheol whispers in his ear, “Trust me Peanut, it’s worth it. I don’t want you miss this view.” 

Jihoon doesn’t even consider arguing as second time. His heart is pounding like he almost went over a cliff, like he pulled himself back at the last second. When Seungcheol holds his hand out again, Jihoon takes it, twining their fingers together as he’s tugged into the elevator.

It's cold as fuck when they finally reach the top, but seeing Paris lit up and sparkling makes Jihoon ache in his chest. The city is more beautiful at night, electrified and filled with potential. He loves it here more than he thought possible.

Even Seungcheol’s not immune to its charm. They lean on the railing together, shoulders just nearly brushing, and in profile there’s a happy glow about him. And maybe it's just the lights of the city, but after weeks of seeing him stressed and angry, hunched over his desk with dark circles under his eyes, it's refreshing to see him so carefree.

After ten minutes of braving the winds, Jihoon starts shivering from the cold. But no sooner has he started, that Seungcheol is shrugging off his thick wool coat and draping it over his shoulders.

There's a moment before Jihoon speaks—a moment where he's distracted by the sight of Seungcheol’s large hands smoothing the coat down his arms—a moment where his skin warms despite the cool night air.

Then he hears his own voice ask, “Aren’t _you_ cold?”

Seungcheol's gaze rises, and there's a flash of something Jihoon can't read behind those dark eyes. Something piercing and sharp and indecipherable. Jihoon's chest tightens in response, but Seungcheol just smiles and shakes his head, “No, I’m good.”

Turning back to the breath-taking vista before him, Jihoon tilts his face into the cold Paris air and inhales.

“Isn’t it just the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

Seungcheol turns to look at him, slowly. “Sure is.”

* * *

They head to the nearest metro station once they leave the Eiffel tower, where Jihoon takes obvious pleasure in trying to blend in with the late Parisian commuters, flapping open a discarded copy of the newspaper and frowning at the French articles.

It’s rather adorable to watch, and Seungcheol sits back in his seat and keeps a protective eye on him as he attempts conversation with a passenger that compliments his beret.

It’s just a German tourist, but Jihoon doesn’t know that, so Seungcheol lets him practice his terrible French with such phrases as ‘I love _the_ Paris’ and ‘Can I have the ham please?’, trying not to burst out laughing all the while.

Seungcheol has always loved visiting Paris, but he’d never spent long, uninterrupted periods of time there. In all honestly, he’s never spent long, uninterrupted periods of time anywhere as an adult. There’s always the next project over the horizon, the next accomplishment—his life has always been a whirlwind of work, and he enjoys it, in a way. But now he’s enjoying the novelty of taking a little time off and showing Jihoon around. And Jihoon seems to lavish each moment that it’s easy for Seungcheol to settle in the moment of _them_ , _here_ , _this_ , _now_.

When they come up from the metro on the other side, Seungcheol takes Jihoon to an artisan bar a stone's throw from their hotel. It's small and not quite packed, but it has an open mic and a handsome Frenchmen plays a Piaf song on his guitar, crooning out her melancholy with a deep, smoky voice.

The music makes Seungcheol's eyes droop, but the strength of the coffee in his cup keeps him wired.

It’s been a long day, and he's torn between exhaustion and alertness: foggy and muddled around the edges, but aware. In contrast, Jihoon is downright chipper, clapping excitably at the end of each song and bumping Seungcheol’s foot under the table as he cranes his neck to admire all the effortlessly attractive Parisians and their effortlessly poised bodies.

Seungcheol gets it: everyone looks like a model in Paris; the women: dainty and impeccable. The men: lean and strong, dashing figures in professional, stylish clothing. Seungcheol can’t help but admire them a little too—but it’s _Jihoon_ who draws his attention the most.

Even exhausted as he is, Jihoon is far too pretty for his own good. There's something in the constant, quiet hum of energy that suffuses him—something in the almost frantic excitement he wears like another layer of clothing—that draws Seungcheol’s attention like a beacon.

Seungcheol frowns, shoves all such dangerous and indulgent thoughts aside as the performance comes to a close, and Jihoon slips through the crowd to shower the singer with money. When he comes back though, he’s looking as close to mortified as he could ever come.

“What’s the matter?” Seungcheol asks as Jihoon retakes his seat.

“I—” Jihoon pauses and glances around the cafe, before leaning in and dropping his voice to a whisper. “I threw my _thong_ at him.”

Seungcheol blinks. He straightens in his chair, “What?”

“I went to give him change out of my pocket, and I forgot my thong was in my pocket, and I threw my thong in by accident. It’s just sitting there, in his guitar case and—” He jabs his finger in Seungcheol’s face. "Don’t you dare laugh Seungcheol."

Seungcheol holds his hands up defensively. "I'm not laughing!"

And he's not. For some reason he's really not, when he knows as well as Jihoon that he should be rolling around on the floor in gales of laughter, because Jihoon, his sweet little innocent Peanut, has just confessed to throwing his lacy red thong at some random man.

He opens his mouth to speak a few times before closing it. He doesn't even know what to _say_ he’s feeling so tongue-tied with astonishment. Mostly he’s reeling over the fact that the lacy red thong is gone. Lost. Forever. In some other man’s possession, when it should be here, with him. Preferably Jihoon would be wearing it of course, but if _anyone_ should have thongs thrown in their face, Seungcheol thinks he should be first in line. 

“What am I going to do?” Jihoon rasps, rubbing both hands over his face.

“Well,” Seungcheol clucks his tongue thoughtfully, “Why don’t you just… go get it back?”

Jihoon sighs and frowns, his gaze skipping away. The pause drags out almost to the point where Seungcheol wants to give him a gentle nudge when he finally blurts out, “I can’t, okay. I’m too embarrassed. Oh god—this is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me.”

 _Too bad—_ Seungcheol thinks. He opens his mouth to say as much, only now Jihoon is staring at him with a quivering lip, eyes open wide and guileless behind a shimmering threat of tears.

Seungcheol mimes hanging himself, but he’s only human—and Jihoon’s sad, silent, facial cry for help is tugging on his very _soul_. So he stands, huffs out a sigh and pushes his way through the crowd.

There are enough people gathered around the singer that no one pays attention to him slip his hand into the guitar case at first, but once he straightens up, thong in hand, more than one person is staring at him with pointed disapproval.

“Détendez-vous—” Seungcheol drawls, flashing the thong briefly before slipping it into his coat pocket. “Je t'échangerai pour ça,” He adds, dispensing with a few hundred Euros that have the signer smiling and thanking him effusively.

He returns to their table, where Jihoon is hovering anxiously, and pats his coat. “No sweat, I got it back.”

“You—you got my thong back?” Jihoon says suspiciously, slowly standing.

“Yeah, look—” Seungcheol pulls the thong out, just far enough for Jihoon to glimpse the lacy red fabric before stuffing it back in his coat pocket, “Your honour has officially been restored.”

Jihoon’s anxious expression clears, though Seungcheol is pretty sure his cheeks have gone a little pinker.

“You _rescued_ my thong from the guy’s guitar case?”

Seungcheol glances at the milling Parisian passers-by uncertainly. “For the record, I don’t think this is a story you should share with people. In fact, I think it’s best that my name and your thong are never in the same sentence. You know—for _both_ our sakes.”

He means it as a joke, to lighten the mood—but the shimmer in Jihoon’s eyes swells and spills over, until two perfectly symmetrical tears track down either side of his face.

Seungcheol watches with gut-kicked fascination, thinking— _Oh my god,_ _I made Jihoon cry. I made little Peanut cry. I am officially the biggest asshole on the planet. I’m a stupid, fucking—_

His internal monologue of self-loathing is cut short however, when Jihoon wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and sniffs, “Thank you Seungcheol. That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

Seungcheol’s brows knit together in confusion.

“Then….why are you crying?” He asks softly.

Jihoon's jaw ticks and he tilts his head back, stares at the ceiling in taut and awful silence. He blinks hard, and Seungcheol realizes what this is. Recognizes this pose. Jihoon is willing back more tears, gathering his composure around himself like a ragged cloak. Several seconds pass, dragging out long and slow, before he lowers his head and looks forward once more. He's not looking directly at Seungcheol—he seems to have picked a place just beyond Seungcheol's left shoulder—the closest he can bear to focus.

“Because most people would have just told me to man up or forget about it. And every time I would think about Paris, I would remember throwing my thong at that guy and it would ruin all the nice memories I’ve made here. But you…you _fixed_ it for me.” His voice is low and choked as he trips over the final word, and he covers his eyes with both hands as a new surge of tears bubbles to the surface.

Seungcheol feels that nauseating wave of self-loathing again. He leans forward, his hand hovering over Jihoon's arm – just for a moment, because even with the whole ‘human stress ball’ agreement they’ve got going, it feels a bit weird to just drag Jihoon into a hug whenever he wants.

He settles for touching Jihoon’s shoulder instead, squeezing it gently, but with purpose.

“ _Yeah_ , cause I didn’t want you to be upset. But you _are_ upset—you’re crying.”

Jihoon peeks through his fingers, shaking his head. Eventually he giggles and raises his face, again looking embarrassed and resigned.

"They’re not _sad_ tears, Seungcheol," he says. "They’re happy tears."

Seungcheol swallows thickly and says, “Oh.”

He doesn’t think anyone’s ever cried happy tears over anything he’s done before. Usually it’s just sad tears, and angry tears—and occasionally _‘how dare you’_ tears. Happy crying is a….well it’s a new concept. But one he’s willing to embrace, especially if it means Jihoon’s not upset with him.

“Okay, I guess that’s a good thing.” He says, finally finding the courage to pull Jihoon into a hug and delighting when Jihoon folds against him easily, tucking his head just under Seungcheol’s chin. “Though if I’m being honest, I think I preferred it when you passed out. I certainly felt like less of an asshole.”

He feels more than hears Jihoon smother a giggle against his chest, seeing as the music has begun to play again, drowning all other sounds around them. He thinks he could sit back down again and enjoy a few more songs, another coffee or two, if Jihoon wanted. But a furtive glance down finds Jihoon heavy lidded and sleepy, and he decides to call it a night.

“Come on—” He whispers, pulling his coat around them both, “The hotel’s just up ahead.”

Jihoon offers him a sweet, dopey smile, and allows himself to be shepherded out of the bar. 

“Are you planning on giving it back to me?” He pipes up, once they’re on the home stretch, minutes from the front door of the Ritz, “My thong?”

Seungcheol purses his lips, pretends to think about it. “I think I should keep a hold of it for now—just in case you still feel the need to fling it at innocent bystanders.”

At that, a flush crawls up Jihoon’s cheeks. It's ridiculously adorable.

* * *

Jihoon wakes up smiling.

For a very long moment, he sprawls in bed and seriously contemplates the possibility that he has dreamed up his whole adventure with Seungcheol yesterday. But no. The back of his legs are sore from all the walking they’d done, and there are shopping bags next to the bed, spilling out all the little gifts and souvenirs he picked up. He’s humming that captivating [tune](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0feNVUwQA8U) from the bar too, and there’s a weightless, airy feeling in the centre of his chest that makes him want to sing and dreams don’t make you feel like that.

No, it was definitely real. And if he’s still in doubt, he probably has a shit-ton of photographs on his phone to prove it.

The only thing is….he really doesn’t remember returning to their hotel last night.

Or getting into bed for that matter.

Or changing into his pyjamas, and he is—he quickly lifts the covers to check—he _is_ wearing his rubber duckie pyjamas. So that must mean he was either too tired to remember doing it all on automatic, or Seungcheol had—

Jihoon jerks upright in bed, levity dissipating as the sudden image of Seungcheol, helping him out of his clothes, coaxing him into his rubber duckie pyjamas and tucking him into bed flashes in his mind.

He can’t be sure if that really happened or if he’s just putting two and two together and getting six—but it’s embarrassing all the same.

Oh well, the embarrassment is well worth the fun he had yesterday, and he’ll be damned if he lets that spoil his mood. He just hopes he didn’t say or do anything too _incriminating_ when he was too sleepy to dress himself. 

Oh, who is he kidding. Of course he did.

Scooting to the edge of the bed, he rolls out and fetches one of the big, extra soft dressing gowns—wraps it around himself.

The French doors leading out to the balcony are wide open, and Jihoon follows the sunlight and crisp breeze to a small seating area, trimmed with trailing vines and flower boxes.

He finds Seungcheol there sitting at the table, sipping a coffee and reading a French newspaper, wearing an expression that says there’s nothing in the world he would rather be doing, right at that moment.

Jihoon pours himself a coffee, and takes the empty seat across from him and _stares_ because Seungcheol hasn’t bothered to style his hair back this morning, and his fringe has gone all _floppy_. He’s also wearing huge dorky grandpa glasses and he’s in dire need of a shave, but he still is, Jihoon allows privately, the hottest guy on the continent.

“You’re up early,” Jihoon says, taking a sip of his coffee.

Seungcheol snorts without looking away from his paper. “It’s 11:45 Jihoon.”

“What?” Jihoon gasps, and slams his cup down, slopping coffee onto the table. 

Seungcheol’s phone is sitting face down near the edge and he scrambles for it, swipes it open to check the time.

It’s 11.46.

Seungcheol is scarily accurate, even with the time difference.

“I can’t believe I slept in.” He says slowly, shock thawing. “I hardly ever sleep in. I always wake up early—even on my days off.”

Seungcheol takes a sip of his coffee, and shrugs. “In your defence, I did keep you up way past your bedtime last night.”

“I don’t _have_ a bedtime. I’m not a _baby_.” Jihoon pouts, though he accepts that pouting of any nature and the fact that Seungcheol had to literally help him get ready for bed last night is _probably_ not doing his argument any favours.

Seungcheol continues to stare at the newsprint, with just a hint of a dimple appearing in his cheek. “You really needed the lie in Peanut, and you were snoring so adorably when I poked my head in, I thought it best not to interrupt you.” 

Jihoon’s still pretty beat from yesterday, so he supposes that makes some sense. Even though the concept of “snoring adorably” is clearly a patently ridiculous one.

“Besides—” Seungcheol continues, folding the newspaper back to turn a page, “It’s not like you missed anything important. The meeting’s been pushed back till 2, and we’re pretty much caught up with everything else. So I just made a few calls and did a little shopping to kill time.” He says, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the window.

Jihoon follows his trajectory, eyebrows jumping as he catches sight of the countless shopping bags gathered around the couch.

“A _little_?”

Finally, Seungcheol lowers his newspaper to look at him, mouth curling into a self-satisfied smirk.

“Well I had to do _something_ to stop myself from reaching for a cigarette, and since my human stress-ball was sleeping, I resorted to retail therapy. Do you disapprove?”

Jihoon opens his mouth to say he’d happily trot all over Paris, carrying Seungcheol’s shopping bags if it stops his reaching for a cigarette, when there’s a knock on the suite door.

“Just in time,” Seungcheol grins, folding his newspaper away. “I hope you’re hungry—I ordered brunch.”

They end up having brunch there on the balcony; eggs and bacon, yoghurt and fruit, an array of pastries with decadent clotted cream and tart fig jam. Seungcheol demolishes his fair share of the pastries in the time it takes Jihoon to eat _one_ , then stares at Jihoon’s share with a petulant little frown until Jihoon pushes the plate forward in encouragement.

It’s so idyllic—having breakfast on the balcony in fucking _Paris_ with his super handsome boss—Jihoon is sort of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He has to stop eating at one point, has to lean back a little in his seat and take it all in: the stunning midday heat, the fresh air, the sounds of people bustling below, the pigeons and the cobblestones and in the centre of it all, Seungcheol tan and gorgeous, stuffing as much pastry as he can in his mouth.

Jihoon chews his lower lip, holds his breath, and finally says, “Uhm, Seungcheol?”

“Yes Dear?” Seungcheol responds, without a moment’s hesitation.

Jihoon’s head spins for a moment—but refuses to be distracted from what he wants to say.

“I didn’t get a chance to properly thank you, for yesterday. For this whole trip actually, for bringing me with you.” Jihoon spins one finger thoughtfully around the rim of his coffee cup, eyes on the table. “I know I’m your PA and this is a business trip, but it honestly doesn’t feel like one at all. It feels like a…like a _holiday_. Like a really nice dream I don’t want to wake up from. And I also know you’ve really gone out of your way to make it enjoyable for me, and while I don’t expect you to do that, I really do appreciate it.”

“Well—” Seungcheol drains the last of his coffee from the cup, licking his lips. “There’s gotta be _some_ perks to working with my grumpy ass five days a week.”

“But I love working for you. Even before you brought me to Paris.” Jihoon counters honestly.

Seungcheol pushes back from the table with a quiet chuckle. He makes to leave, but stops behind Jihoon’s chair and leans over, voice vibrating against Jihoon’s back, low and lovely and warm. “Happy to hear it Kitten.”

* * *

Seungcheol cups his hands and splashes the cool water on his face.

He takes a deep breath and stares at himself in the mirror. His bloodshot eyes and chaotic hair are not an unusual sight to him first thing in the morning, but his _fare well_ and _fuck you very much_ meeting with the architects is in an hour, and he honestly doesn’t want to give those fuckers the satisfaction of thinking he spent last night worrying about their rejection, when he had in fact, spent the day galivanting around the city with his precious PA.

So he shower and shaves, dabs cooling moisturiser on the bruise-like shadows under his eyes and slicks his hair back with the customary force, before donning a neat grey suit and tie.

There’s really no point in dragging Jihoon along to the meeting, for what will amount to a polite rejection, so he leaves his Peanut in the suite to pack and takes the scenic route down to the lobby. It leaves him running ten minutes late, which normally he wouldn’t stand for—but whatever, fuck them—they can wait. _Assholes_.

The reservations at the Salon Proust is made under his name, and as the Maître D leads him toward the table, Seungcheol’s surprised to see Jihoon standing there, _chatting_ with the architects.

For a moment Seungcheol’s mind darts to and fro, half-convinced that he must be imagining things because he’s pretty sure he left Jihoon upstairs.

Maybe he’s asleep and dreaming, or maybe that small man in the red beret just strongly resembles Jihoon. But then Seungcheol blinks, and his pulse steadies, and he’s able to admit that his first impression was correct: against all odds and reason, that _is_ Jihoon standing in the middle of the restaurant. Jihoon, who he’d left frantically packing his bag in their hotel room.

He’s doing most of the talking as usual, hands gesticulating articulately as he speaks, but the interpreter is translating everything perfectly, even his excitable hand gestures.

“—kept the Eiffel tower till last, because Mr Choi said it was most beautiful at night, and he was right. It was _amazing_.” Jihoon finishes, straightening up and smiling beatifically as Seungcheol reaches the table.

Frederique cuts a look over at Seungcheol but shakes hands politely enough and switches into French.

_“Your assistant was just telling us about his adventure around the city yesterday. You’re quite the tour guide by the sounds of it. He even mentioned a few spots I’ve never been to, and I’ve lived in Paris my whole life.”_

“Well, sometimes it takes an outsiders viewpoint to really appreciate what you have.” Seungcheol replies coolly. In Korean.

Frederique’s brought his interpreter along for the ride again, so he may as well earn his fucking salary.

Frederique’s eyebrows lift a good half-inch as the man translates, but otherwise his expression is impressively steady and pleasant.

Jihoon steps forward then, holding Seungcheol’s phone out in his hand. “I just came down to give you your phone. You left it upstairs, and I didn’t know if you _meant_ to, but I thought I should bring it to you anyway.”

Seungcheol nods his thanks and accepts the phone, and Jihoon then turns to the two architects and shakes their hands.

“It was very nice to meet you. I hope we meet again soon. Or _voir_? Am I saying that right?”

Both men smile at him indulgently and nod their approval, and Jihoon skips off with a happy little smile.

When he’s out of sight, Frederique turns to him and smiles, possibly the most genuine smile he’s given thus far.

“Il est très gentil. Comme une petite amande.”

Seungcheol stares down at his hands on the table-top. His fingers tremble against the marble, itching to smack the smile of the man’s mouth and announce _‘He’s a Peanut you bastard. A peanut! How dare you suggest otherwise.’_ He folds them over his lap instead, just as they curl into fists.

His teeth grind, but he manages to answer, “Très vrai.”

* * *

Jihoon’s not quite sure how he’s going to fit everything back in his suitcase.

It’s a medium sized suitcase, and he only packed enough clothes for three days, but it’s already spilling over with all the gifts he bought for his friends. There’s a fancy French desert and Fancy French recipe book for Seokmin, pretty chocolates and a pretty scarf for his mother, a retractable pen shaped like the Eiffel tower for Jeonghan, a stapler for Junhui and—oh god, so many Macron gift boxes there’s no way he can shut his case.

He’s already said goodbye to the travel sized toiletries and the inflatable baguette, but there’s nothing else he can bear to part with. He was actually hoping he could sneak some travel sized shampoo _back_ into the empty crevices of his bag, but there’s not a spare inch of room and he still has to fit in his plushie.

He’s wondering if he has enough time to rush out and buy a second suitcase, when there’s a gentle knock on his bedroom door.

When he turns, Seungcheol’s there, leaning against the frame. He's smiling, a warm, laughing smile, the kind of smile Jihoon only sees when something has gone very, very right.

Before Jihoon gets a chance to ask him how the meeting went, he clears his throat and says, “What did you say to them?”

Jihoon blinks, “Huh?”

“The architects.” Seungcheol clarifies, slinking closer with a smoothness Jihoon’s could only dream of possessing, “You were speaking to them before I arrived. I was wondering what you said to them.”

“They asked me what I thought of Paris, and I just told them about our adventure yesterday. About how much fun I had, and how beautiful the city was. That’s all.” He shifts nervously under Seungcheol’s heavy gaze, “Did—did I do something wrong?”

“No, no—of course not,” Seungcheol gives him a strange, sad smile, then sighs and claps him on the shoulder. “We got the deal Jihoon.”

Startled, Jihoon thinks he mustn’t have heard that correctly. “What?”

“We got the deal,” Seungcheol repeats with a chuckle. “The project’s ours—all thanks to _you_.”

Jihoon opens and closes his mouth, feeling off-kilter, “But…I didn’t do anything.”

“Sure you did.” Seungcheol says, voice a little rough as his fingertip brush over Jihoon’s cheek. “You did what I set out to today yesterday but failed to—you _charmed_ them. They’re weren’t interested in what I had to say 24 hours ago, but then they meet you and suddenly they’re more open with me—more relaxed and amenable. You showed a side to them I could never show, and it got us our deal. You’re a little star, you know that?”

Jihoon just stares at him, mouth hanging open.

He thinks he probably looks comical, but these sorts of things don’t normally happen to Jihoon. He doesn’t really get a chance to speak with their clients normally—and sure, he accompanies Seungcheol to all the meetings, but no one ever looks twice at him.

Even back at the office he feels like his co-workers have a hard time noticing he _exists_ half the time. But he’s been content with that—happy to just work in the background of everything, cool and calm and capable, but never…never the _star_.

Breath he hadn’t realized he was holding bursts out of him in an anxious rush. “Do you think it was my lucky beret?!”

"Could be." Seungcheol tells him solemnly, the corner of his mouth twitching. He heads for the door but pauses on the threshold, turning a pointed look at Jihoon over his shoulder, “But I think it was just _you_ , Jihoon.”

* * *

“Bye Paris. Bye Eiffel Tower. Bye giant pigeon that stole my Pain au chocolate—hope you enjoyed it. Bye—.” Jihoon is saying, nose pressed against the glass as the plane takes off.

There’s a happy sort of sadness to his smile, one Seungcheol sort of gets. It’s the kind of sadness you feel after the laughter stops and you’re not sure you’ll ever laugh so hard again; post-holiday blues or whatever.

He watches Jihoon wave out the window at nothing in particular until the seat belt sigh turns _off_ , then pats the seat next to him.

“Jihoon, come here for a sec.”

He waits until Jihoon’s slid into the seat and fastened his belt, before producing the gift bag tucked under his coat.

“I uh—I _got_ something for you, okay, but you’re not allowed to pass out. Or cry. But if you absolutely have to do one of those things, I think I’d prefer the passing out. At least that way, I could just tell the air stewardess you’re sleeping—but if you cry, she’s going to give me dirty looks for the rest of the flight and possibly poison my drink. So, you know—if you could contain your happiness here—that would be great.”

Jihoon folds his hands over his lap and adopts a suitably serious yet ridiculously adorable expression. “I’ll try.”

“Okay—” Seungcheol swallows, then pulls out the fluffy white kitten plushie wearing a red beret he bought that morning. “Here.”

Jihoon’s reaction is 110%.

He gasps, eyes blowing so wide open there isn’t a hint of white left in his irises.

“Don’t pass out.” Seungcheol warns, trying to hide the plushie behind his back. But Jihoon doesn’t, he just lunges for the plushie with grabby hands, “Gimme!”

With the plushie literally ripped out of his hands, Seungcheol can do nothing but slump back in his seat with a sigh of relief.

That was more nerve-wracking than it should have been. Giving people presents shouldn’t be that tense, shouldn’t leave him sweating through his shirt. But it’s okay—Jihoon likes his gift. He _really_ likes his—oh wow, he _loves_ his gift actually. Really loves it, okay—maybe he loves it a little too much. Seungcheol wants to take it back now, he’s getting kind of jealous.

“Where did you get him?” Jihoon asks, once he’s stopped peppering the plushie with tiny kisses.

Downplaying it, Seungcheol bats a hand lazily.

“I was, ya know, just out shopping, buying some suits—and I noticed this little guy in the window of one shop and I thought—hey, Jihoon collects stuffed toys—so I got him for you. Cause you know, you—you did a great job charming the architects and all.” He says, which is the biggest fattest lie he’s ever told in his sorry excuse for a life.

Little does Jihoon know, that he went out shopping that morning with the specific intent of buying Jihoon a gift—something he would love. He didn’t just happen to come across _anything_ —he’s searched and combed and bribed his way through half of the toy shops in Paris, looking specifically for a kitten plushie with a little red beret.

There wasn’t one to be found, not a single one in the whole city. So he’d settled for a velvet soft plushie from an upmarket toy-shop he found Rive Gauche, bought a child-sized red beret from Chanel—then spent an hour explaining to a an apparently deaf seamstress that _Yes, he did want a 1000 Euro hat stitched onto a toy’s head. Today. Make it snappy._

All the effort though—the effort was so fucking worth it, because Jihoon’s lit up from the inside and out as he cuddles with his plushie. 

“I love him.” Jihoon whispers, rubbing his cheek against the snow-white fur, “He has a beret just _like_ mine.”

“Yeah, I know right. What are the odds,” Seungcheol smirks.

Zilch.

The odds are _Zilch_.

You’re more likely to win the lottery and gets struck by lightning on the same _day_ than find a kitten plushie with a red beret in Paris. Seungcheol _knows_. He’s bought the fucking T-shirt.

“You got a name for him yet?” He asks, watching Jihoon fawn unknowingly over his doppelganger.

Jihoon pulls a serious expression, like he’s questioning whether Seungcheol really wants to know the answer. Then he stares down at the plushie, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Berry.”

“Berry Beret?” Seungcheol tips his head thoughtfully, “I like it. It’s cute.”

He reclines his seat and pulls his eye-mask down over his face, manages few minutes of shut-eye before he hears Jihoon whisper, “Thank you Seungcheol” and feels the gentle, hesitant brush of lips against his cheek.

It's sweet kiss—a little bit shy, a little bit innocent, and pure Peanut.

* * *

One hour on home turf and ten minutes into their car journey, Jihoon’s head falls on his shoulder with a slight bump.

Seungcheol freezes at the feel a brush of loose hair tickle the side of his neck, warm breath ghosting over his clavicle and the dip in his throat. It’s not until he hears Jihoon slow, steady breaths that he realizes his peanut has fallen asleep.

Relaxing by degrees, Seungcheol leans away, not so far as to tip Jihoon off, but enough to look at him. He keeps every movement slow and soft, leery of waking the man in his arms and his chest _tightens_ at the sight of Jihoon’s slack face, so much younger in sleep. An ache pulses behind his ribs, powerful enough that for a watchful moment Seungcheol can’t convince his lungs to _breathe_.

Sparing a glance at the rear-view mirror, he hesitates only a moment before wrapping an arm around Jihoon’s back and pulling him closer. Jihoon murmurs quietly, but he’s pliant and warm and Seungcheol settles him against his chest, arms easily encasing the expanse of his body.

The driver’s focused on the road and they’re the only ones here—there’s nobody around to judge him—what point is there in keeping artificial distance between them _now_. He is already well outside the realms of appropriate behaviour. So if Jihoon’s going to fall asleep on him, he may as well let him get comfortable.

And of course, there is the more selfish truth: this may well be the last chance he gets to be close to Jihoon.

This business trip has easily been the most enjoyable time Seungcheol’s ever spent in Paris. Hell, he’s had more fun in the last 48 hours than he’s ever had in the last decade, but it was all a little bittersweet in a way, knowing deep down that it wouldn’t last forever. Paris is a whole world away, and now that they’re back on home turf he knows he’s going to have to solidify his defences because he just can’t keep _doing_ this.

The effort of maintaining a semblance of professionalism around Jihoon is hard enough, but he’s just making it harder each time he lets his guard slip.

For his own sanity, for the sake of his own reputation and Jesus, for _Jihoon_ —he just can’t afford to let his guard down anymore.

It occurs to him—not for the first time—that this is a problem.

But it’s not a problem for tonight. Whatever the scope of his mistake in letting his guard down—whatever guilt the morning will bring for these stolen moments of intimacy—he will contend with them when they’re back in the office.

For now Seungcheol brushes a staticky strand of hair from Jihoon’s forehead, presses a kiss to his temple, and silently watches his Peanut sleep.

It’s only when the car comes to a slow stop outside Jihoon’s apartment building that he finally tears his eyes away from his sleeping PA. The chauffeur raises an expectant eyebrow at him in the rear-view mirror, and Seungcheol smiles back slowly, eyes apologetic, sheepish.

“Shall I circle the block a few times sir?” The man says, amused but kind.

Seungcheol says nothing, just nods.


End file.
